is not insubordination.
There is no regime,
they say.
There is no invisible
ruling class,
there is no face
and there is no mask.
There are strings that are pulled
which make us dance
the farce of freedom,
a hallucination of being,
our imperfect kingdoms
haloed by the Real Thing.
By dancing we make it real,
we give it life in movement
in action,
we spill our guts
we cross the line
we break things
and fuck things
in the heat of passion
in the abyss of
confounding contemplations
regarding the world and
purpose and self
and meaning and
the existence of some
True North,
a guiding light
of infallible righteousness.
Yet the sharper grow our minds
the more we cut up the world
and believe ever more
in the divide,
and these chasms will swallow men whole,
many will fall
who were not taught to fly,
the leap of faith
will seem a complete and utter lie.
Why, I would set the sky
aflame as well,
I would terrorize the villain
as I perceived him
and not change my perception
for that would be to sacrifice
the heart and foundation
of what I believe in.
Ay the conundrum.
We all live in sin,
and then we kill in the name
of our personal or collective
version of perfection.
Ay, this twisted version
of living and loving and life.
It is the blade of the page
the claws and thorn-teeth
of creatures that prey.
